webcrawl/APGTE/Book-5/tex/Ch-130.md.tex

\hypertarget{interlude-suffer-no-compromise-in-this}{%
\section{Interlude: Suffer No Compromise In
This}\label{interlude-suffer-no-compromise-in-this}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``Fifth of all Choirs, sternest Judgement}

\emph{They who cannot abide the repugnant;}

\emph{None more farsighted than the Tribunal,}

\emph{And none as even-handed or as brutal.''}

-- Extract from the `Hymn of Hymns', Atalantian sacred text (declared
heresy in Procer and Callow)
\end{quote}

Anaxares had been a boy when he'd first heard the song of rage.

He'd been seven when thousands boiled through the streets of Bellerophon
in wroth, for the lot-drawn \emph{iakas} had mismanaged the People's
wheat and rationing was announced. He'd heard myriad voices howling out
the same displeasure, like a great beast made up of an entire city, and
it had been a thing of awe. So many voices, all telling of the same
belief: \emph{this may be, yet this is not how it should be}. The
\emph{iakas} were dragged out one and all, and before the citizens they
had failed were made to answer for that failure. Tribunals were called
by the People, held by the People, and the People handed down their
bloody verdict. As a boy he'd watched the fear on the faces of the
\emph{iakas} with curiosity, but it had felt distant. Like a glimpse of
another world entirely. His own was easier grasped for it was made up of
the pounding of a thousand feet, the shouts of a thousand throats. The
people, he'd dimly grasped then, were the river that carried them all.
No single man nor woman could command the current, and like any
capricious river-god it could bathe or drown as its whims demanded. What
purpose was there to fear, when naught of this could be changed? And so
Anaxares the Diplomat had let the river take him where it would, beyond
care or worry.

Yet the river had brought him to a shore where none of the people should
ever know.

What a terrible thing it had been, to watch the sole thing he truly
believed in turn against itself. \emph{Your services to the people have
made you a Person of Value}, the kanenas had told him. And in that
blasphemous betrayal the seed of a greater folly was planted, for the
People cast their vote for Anaxares the Diplomat and that worst of
treasons saw him elected the Hierarch of the Free Cities. Long had he
wondered of this, of the purpose to it. Could there even be one?
Forbidden to take his own life through action or inaction by the decree
of the People, he had been left to wallow in the absurdity of his
continued breath. And with every moment the world had hounded him for
further treasons, flies swarming to him like they would to carrion.
Named and kings and queens, princes high and low, a buzzing flock of
foreign despots that wanted him to sit at their table and pretend they
were anything more than ticks sucking the blood out of those they
claimed to be \emph{ruling}. And all the while Kairos Theodosian,
Helike's bloody son, had taken the spurs to his flanks until this day
came. This hour, this moment, this reckoning for all the many balances
left uneven.

Anaxares was not blind. He knew well the Tyrant had paved the road to
this for his own foul reasons. It did not matter to him, for the
destination was of his own choice, and no part save that one weighed on
the scales. It'd been a choice forged in that terrible, lucid moment
where the creature that called itself the Wandering Bard had tried to
clap him in chains, but he had not grown to regret it since. Anaxares
had been a boy, when he'd first heard the song of rage, but he heard it
still as a man grown. It had stayed with him, seeped into his bones, and
as the great despots of the east and the west entered under his watchful
gaze the tune was so loud he grew deaf to all that was being spoken. The
Tyrant flew above on his gargoyle-carried throne -- a familiar twitch of
revulsion went through him at the sight, the clenching muscle of
\emph{Thrones Are An Unforgiveable Abomination Unto The People, To Be
Met With Scorn And Thrown Rocks} -- and addressed the lot of them,
weaving his exact truths into the finest of lies. The song ebbed low,
though it did not leave, and the Hierarch cut in through the chatter.

``Be seated or you will be expelled,'' Anaxares stated.

``Lord Hierarch,'' a fair-haired woman said. ``I greet you-``

The diplomat twitched.

``There are no lords in a court of the People,'' Anaxares of Bellerophon
coldly said. ``Neither crowns nor the petty tyrannies of those claiming
them are of any weight here. Be seated presently or you \emph{will} be
expelled-''

He did not know her name, unfortunately, and so glanced at the Tyrant in
question. The mad boy grinned back.

``Cordelia Hasenbach,'' the king of Helike helpfully provided.

Was she? It would explain why she might be under the mistaken impression
her words carried authority here.

``Yes,'' Anaxares said, ``that.''

His eyes swept the crowd, recognizing only a single face: Catherine
Foundling, the so-called Queen of Callow. The Black Knight of Praes was
not here, which was displeasing. The man had also committed crimes under
the laws of the League and would not have been unfit to stand trial
today, were he present. A woman at the back of the pack, bearing a large
unstrung bow, raised her hand.

``Speak,'' Anaxares said.

``Is that the Dead King?'' she asked, pointing behind him.

There did indeed seem to be some sort of crowned skeleton there, the
Hierarch noted. It was holding a cup full of blood, which after a long
moment he was forced to concede was not against any law he knew of. The
diplomat once more cast a glance at the Tyrant, who equivocated with a
wiggled palm.

``More or less,'' Anaxares replied.

She raised her hand again, to his irritation.

``Speak,'' he repeated.

``I see the Dead King got refreshments,'' the woman said. ``Which is
most terribly unfair, as we have not.''

``That is not a question,'' the Hierarch peevishly told her.

It was, however, true. And damning. Anaxares turned to glare at the
Tyrant.

``My staff are on it,'' the boy assured him.

It would suffice. He was not concerned with the matter beyond the
perception of willingly allowed imbalance.

``I will not repeat myself a third time,'' Anaxares bluntly said. ``All
attending must take their seats or depart.''

There was offended shuffling from the band of Avaricious Foreign
Oligarchs, but they heeded the reminder. Not that the diplomat spared
them much attention, not when the accused himself was stepping forward.
The White Knight, Hanno of Arwad. No longer a citizen of Ashur by their
own laws, inquiries to the Thalassocracy had established, and seemingly
claimed by no one in particular. No one mortal, that was. The White
Knight was a tall and solid man, plain of face but of calm bearing, and
he strode to the stand reserved for the accused without need for
prompting. Anaxares approved. He waited until the man stood amidst the
gutted altar to Above before speaking up.

``I am Anaxares of Bellerophon,'' he informed the Named. ``The elected
Hierarch of the Free Cities.''

``I know who you are, Anaxares the Diplomat,'' the White Knight replied.

The afternoon sun filtered in though the stained glass and the gaping
walls, casting the court in mixed and coloured light. It made the White
Knight seem as if he had been painted on, as if this entire court of law
was some delirious stretch of Arcadia. Anaxares remained seated at his
table, facing the accused with a quill in hand and the parchments he had
prepared for this day ready.

``Then you know why you stand now before me,'' the Hierarch said. ``A
grievance was lodged by a member of the League concerning crimes you
committed, and my judgement was sought over the matter.''

``I am not a citizen of any nation of the League,'' the White Knight
said.

That was true, and to be entered in the record, though of no
repercussion on the proceedings.

``That is irrelevant,'' Anaxares flatly replied. ``Crimes committed
against citizens of the League on the grounds of the League fall under
its jurisdiction nonetheless.''

He paused.

``I am told,'' the Hierarch said, ``that you willingly agreed to submit
yourself to judgement.''

If so, that was a principled action. Not one that mattered in the
slightest when it came to culpability, but the principle was laudable
regardless.

``I agreed to stand trial,'' the White Knight corrected.

``Then as is allowed the laws of the League of Free Cities, you are
allowed to request someone to advocate in your name,'' Anaxares said.
``So long as they are a citizen of a member-nation, that is.''

``I have volunteered to serve as your defender, should you desire it,''
the Tyrant called out. ``Otherwise a band of seven candidates was
arranged.''

Those had already been refused, which the boy knew even if he now
implied otherwise, and so Anaxares made note of the Tyrant's petty
obstruction.

``Your candidates were judged unlawful,'' the Hierarch reminded the
Tyrant. ``Gargoyles are not citizens, even when words indicating
otherwise are painted on them.''

His gaze turned to the former Ashuran.

``While remaining here in containment, you have an hour to send for such
an advocate should you so wish,'' Anaxares informed him. ``Or you may
accept the offer of the Tyrant of Helike.''

``It was my understanding,'' the White Knight said, ``that it was the
grievance of the Lord Tyrant that led to this trial.''

A moment passed.

``That is correct,'' Anaxares conceded.

``I would seek to be impartial in both offices, naturally,'' Kairos
Theodosian cheerfully assured the accused, ``You have my solemn vow in
this.''

``A kind offer,'' the White Knight drily said. ``I will be serving as my
own advocate, Hierarch. Who is to be my accuser?''

The song stirred at the man's mellow manner, the way he seemed to take
none of this seriously. Anger, anger the white-clad killer who had
walked the Free Cities and killed as he pleased and never once thought
there might \emph{consequence} to this. That a Name and the blessing of
angels set him beyond such petty matters.

``There is no accuser,'' the Hierarch harshly stated. ``Your crimes are
not in dispute, they are a matter of known record as certified by sworn
witnesses from Delos, Stygia, Helike and Nicae.''

``Then the actions you deem as crimes should be listed, should they
not?'' the White Knight said. ``Unless you intend to simply pass
sentence.''

``I deem or dismiss nothing,'' the Hierarch said, grinding his teeth.
``The law is writ, and known to any who care to know it.''

He brought forward the first parchment, his own familiar writing
providing the list that the Named was asking for.

``Murder of citizens of Helike and Stygia is the first charge,''
Anaxares said. ``On one hundred and seventy-three counts assured,
forty-two alleged with proof in only the second degree.''

Which was to say, less than two witnesses and no writ evidence.

``You speak of soldiers,'' the White Knight said, ``fought in time of
war.''

``In time of war between members of the League of Free Cities,'' the
Hierarch said. ``You are not a citizen, and so not legally part of such
a war, unless you took coin as mercenary in the service of a lawful
government. Do you here claim to have done so?''

``I do not,'' the White Knight said, ``though I worked in lawful accord
with the Secretariat in the defence of Delos and with the permission of
Strategos Nereida Silantis in the defence of Nicae.''

``The Secretariat has provided records that put truth to your words,''
Anaxares acknowledged. ``Basileus Leo Trakas, who speaks for Nicae, has
declined to do so. Yet in the absence of payment from Delos that would
qualify you as a mercenary in the employ of the Secretariat, the point
is irrelevant. The askretis cannot absolve a crime, only abet it.''

Anaxares reached for his papers, where he had put to ink the names he
could not all remember. There were many, some he had known when he was
still entirely a diplomat.

``You also murdered sitting members of the Magisterium, the exact list
of your victims being-''

``Has the Magisterium then made complaint to the League?'' the White
Knight interrupted.

The song rose in pitch at the interruption, not for the words themselves
but at the disrespect for the trial they implied.

``It has not,'' the Hierarch replied, brow creasing in displeasure. ``It
has, however, granted rights to another party to seek redress in its
name.''

``That would be me,'' the Tyrant gleefully said.

``That is correct,'' the Hierarch agreed. ``You have also attempted to
murder the ruling king of Helike-''

``Also me,'' the Tyrant added, still with unseemly glee.

``- and in the attempt claimed to hold the authority to pass judgement
over King Kairos Theodosian of Helike,'' Anaxares continued
unflinchingly.

``That is incorrect,'' the White Knight said.

Someone in the benches loudly cursed, but the Hierarch paid it no mind.

``Speak now, if you would amend the record,'' Anaxares said. ``It has
until now been understood that in your role as the White Knight you
spoke for the Choir to which you are sworn and passed judgement in their
stead.''

Was the man now renouncing the authority bestowed upon him by the Choir,
in an attempt to exempt it from consequence? If so, it was a cowardly
thing.

``I do not judge,'' Hanno of Arwad said, ``and passed no judgement over
the Tyrant of Helike. The judgement was passed by the Tribunal, and I
sought to execute the sentence it as is my duty.''

The song, oh the song swelled. This was, Anaxares understood, so much
worse than he had believed. Had the Tyrant known? No, that did not
matter. Law was law, no matter what capering gargoyle brought it to the
fore. Yet mistakes here could not be allowed.

``Clarify what you mean by `the Tribunal','' the Hierarch ordered.

``The Choir of Judgement,'' the White Knight replied.

``You then allege,'' Anaxares slowly said so there could be no mistake,
``that the Seraphim of the Choir of Judgement have claimed the right to
pass judgement over citizens of the League?''

``It is not a subtle thing, what you attempt,'' the White Knight told
him. ``Do you understand this? That you have not tricked or fooled any
in this hall. That your intent is clear as day.''

``What I \emph{attempt},'' Anaxares of Bellerophon softly repeated. ``As
if this were some sort of plot, a scheme against you or your masters. Is
that what you believe, Hanno of Arwad? That the Seraphim and your
service of them are owed abeyance? That the world entire is to twist and
bend to your verdicts, \emph{unasked for and unsought}?''

\emph{We are all of us free}, the song whispered in his ear, \emph{or we
are none of us free.}

``Madness,'' the White Knight said, ``is no excuse for baring steel at
the Heavens.''

``If the Heavens would have part in this trial,'' the Hierarch coldly
said, ``they may be seated and silent, like the rest of the gallery.
Speak not otherwise of those that cannot be called to account.''

``This will not end as you wish, Hierarch,'' the White Knight calmly
said. ``Yet if you cannot be turned aside so be it: the Choir of
Judgement acknowledges none to be beyond its jurisdiction, save for the
Gods Above.''

The song filled him, up to brim, but that wroth was as much his own as
the tune's.

``There is no law, writ or known, that grants this right to the Choir of
Judgement,'' Anaxares of Bellerophon said with excruciating calm.

``And yet it is theirs nonetheless,'' the White Knight said.

\emph{We are all of us free}, the song hissed in his ear, \emph{or we
are none of us free.}

``No,'' the Hierarch coldly said. ``It is not. And if it would pretend
otherwise, let it stand before this court and defend that crude
arrogance.''

``I warned you,'' the White Knight sadly said.

Power coursed around the court, first the distant weavings the Tyrant
had laid around this place and then the blooming protections the tyrants
high and low garbed themselves in out of fear. And then it came, the
answer he had asked for. There was no ceiling above them, nothing save
the cloudless blue sky, and through it the wroth of Judgement came down
on him.

The Hierarch burned.

The Tribunal gazed down upon him, and its fury broke his bones and
scoured his flesh. All around him shattered, even the very ground, and
even as his body tore apart claws dug into his mind. Force him to look
where they would, to see what they wished him to see. Before his eyes
unfolded and endless shifting tapestry, made from all the decisions that
were made and could be. The depth was\ldots{} too much to grasp. The
threads of every action and consequence, of the reasons and the endings.
This was, the Hierarch grasped, what the Seraphim saw. The truth of
their judgement. And as he tried to parse it, he felt his mind begin to
unravel. He could have looked away. It would have spared him the
horrendous pain going through every fiber of who he was. But that would
be admitting that their judgement was right. That it was correct, for
they knew things mortals could not. And so as he stared unblinking
Anaxares of Bellerophon found oblivion snaking her arms around him.
Oblivion, and with it would come rest. Would that not be a relief? And
yet there was one thing he could not help but see.

It was a woman, carving words into a stele of stone that somehow
reminded him of a great bird's corpse. Around her was a sea of people in
rags, thin and sickly and hungry. Yet there was something in their eyes,
as they looked at the stele and the woman, that made him want to weep.
And the words, oh the words he knew them. Every child born of
Bellerophon knew them. \emph{All are free, or none. Ye of this land,
suffer no compromise in this.} The woman was wounded, bleeding within,
and with the last letter she died. But the words, the words stayed. And
as the city rose around them, around the stele, blood splashed stone.
\emph{Suffer no compromise in this}, the stele had told them, and so
they did not. And they bled and they bled and they bled, and they bled
but they never bowed. Not once did they look at the world, even at the
very bottom of the pit, and bend their neck. It would have been easy,
light as a feather. And perhaps they would have been better for it. And
from mother to son, father to daughter, the words on the stele had
carried down. Until they ended up told to a small boy, who one day would
be a diplomat. \emph{Suffer no compromise in this}, Anaxares thought,
and the world sang it with him.

His body was a ruin yet there was a need for it, and so the Hierarch
decided it would have to \textbf{Mend}.

Bones set back in place, soldered by will, and flesh knit itself anew.
Teeth made by heat into black and broken stones flew back into his mouth
as the table and the chair snapped back into place. The Hierarch of the
Free Cities dipped his quill into the inkwell, tongue lolling out of his
half-broken mouth as it reformed.

``This will be added to the record as evidence of guilt,'' he informed
the Choir.

\emph{Attempted murder of a sitting judge of the court}, he penned. The
Seraphim had expressed their displeasure yet not bothered to attend, but
that would not be enough to spare them judgement earned. Mind clear and
still as a pond, the Hierarch closed his eyes and allowed himself to
\textbf{Receive} what he required. Silhouettes stood before his gaze,
bearing each six wings of bronze and a conviction like a fire that
nothing could put out. They gazed back, and in their fury struck again.
The world broke, and Anaxares with it, but without pause it was mended
anew.

``Petulance,'' the Hierarch said. ``I address now the Seraphim of the
Choir of Judgement, also known as the Tribunal, and \textbf{Indict} you
for the following crimes-''

They smote him again, and he mended. It did not matter, for now his Name
sang and filled the world. As it had in Rochelant, a blank slate on
which all could write their accusations and have them known by all.

``- despotism high and low, arrant and illegal intervention in League
affairs, attempted regicide --''

The Tyrant of Helike was laughing, he realized as he mended anew.

``- disturbance of the court, three --''

It was desperate now, the burning that consumed him tinted with dismay.

``- four times,'' the Hierarch adjusted. ``And repeated attempted
murder. Given the overwhelming evidence-''

It no longer hurt, the Hierarch mused as he mended, as if the ability to
feel pain had been scoured out of him.

``- the verdict cannot be in doubt,'' he continued. ``I pronounce you
guilty and sentence you to-''

The words choked in his mouth, for something has seized his throat. Not
the Tribunal, no. It was a great presence but not that, and as the grip
tightened around his throat the Seraphim prepared to strike again.

``I win,'' Kairos Theodosian laughed.

And the grip was \emph{gone}.